Family Life

We’ve spent all summer watching the hedge grow up and out. It has been the kind of thing that inspires the following conversation:

- “We should really trim the hedge.”

- “Mm hmm. It’s getting a bit long, isn’t it.”

- “This weekend, then?”

- “No, we’re busy.”

And so the weeks pass. Spring was dry and so the hedge got a late start on this year’s growth. Finally Debbie complained that she couldn’t get the mower through the gate into the back yard. And I realized that the gate itself was on a lean because of pressure from the hedge. So yesterday and today I worked at trimming the hedge.

We have an electric trimmer with a 22-inch blade. The electric part means it’s quite light and manageable. The 22-inch part means I have to lean way out to reach the middle of the hedge, while barely holding on to the very end of the handle with my fingertips, while standing on the top of a ladder, which is wobbling on uneven ground. All of a sudden the trimmer isn’t so light any more. The hedge is large and imposing and looks pretty solid, almost solid enough to lean on. But you can’t. It’s just twigs and leaves (albeit a lot of them).

I finished trimming about three quarters yesterday before the encroaching dusk brought out the vicious mosquitoes. By then my wrists had turned to rubber from the vibrating trimmer, my shoulders and back were burning from supporting my body as I leaned out, and there were permanent grooves engraved in my shins from where I leaned against the edges of the metal ladder, trying to get some leverage to prevent me from pitching face first into the hedge. Later that evening I had to hold my coffee with both hands to keep from spilling it, I was shaking so much. I had to use one hand to push against the elbow of the other arm to muster enough strength to wash my hair in the shower. You can probably deduce that sitting in front of a computer every day doesn’t develop a lot of upper-body endurance.

Today was much better. I was still somewhat sore, but had no problems finishing off the rest of the trimming.

I pulled out the wheelbarrow, much to the boys’ delight, and started gathering the clippings to trundle off to the compost pile. Daniel immediately wanted to help. As I raked clippings into big piles, he’d dive into the centre of the pile with his arms outstretched and grab as much as he could. Dump into the wheelbarrow. Repeat. Admirable energy and enthusiasm, especially considering the scratchy, poky nature of the clippings. There were a couple of problems with his method, though, the main one being that his goal of getting the biggest armload possible meant that I had to rake a new pile after every attempt. About a quarter of the clippings he picked up ended up strewn around the wheelbarrow. And diving into the pile didn’t help keep it together either. The other problem was that the clippings were not being laid (semi-) neatly along the main axis of the wheelbarrow. Half of them ended up lying across the wheelbarrow, the ends hanging over the sides. The wheelbarrow barely fits through the width of the gate on its way to the compost pile, and I could envision the protruding ends catching against the gate and the whole lot coming off as I tried to push through. The problem was that Daniel just wasn’t doing it properly. As the pile on the wheelbarrow grew above his head things just got worse.

What to do?

Daniel was excited to be outside helping Dad. He was earnestly trying to do a good job. He derived satisfaction from seeing the load grow on the wheelbarrow. And (this was the crucial point) he kept at it. I decided I’d rather encourage him to help in the household work, draw him in, praise him for his efforts. Why should I be the only one privileged to work on the hedge?

We were halfway around, several barrow-fulls along, before he wearied of the work and decided to have a break. Much to my relief. Now I could rake faster, load faster, dump faster, be done sooner. But for twenty minutes my four-year-old son and I worked side-by-side toward a common goal. I didn’t care if it was taking longer to clean up the clippings. We were cultivating a family.

Joel ran out to join in the fun, despite Mum yelling, “Joel! Stay inside!” Selective deafness. All my children suffer that affliction. Easy-going Joel picked up a couple of twigs, decided that it was too much like hard work and happily left it all to Daniel. He followed us around while we worked, cheerfully chatting non-stop. Cultivating a family.

Micah, sadly, couldn’t reach the latch on the door and had to be content with wistfully gazing through the screen at all the fun his brothers were having, helping Dad. His turn will come, but it must be tough being the youngest in the family.

I didn’t pick up the clippings along the back of the hedge. We can’t see that side from the house (out of sight, out of mind) and once again the mosquitoes were coming out in full force. I was done for the day.

In retrospect, I’m glad the boys came out to help. It’s a lot of extra effort to channel their energy and the “real” work slows down. But I’ll cherish the memory of the time we spent together much more than the back-breaking drudgery of the actual work. The memory of togetherness, of family.

This afternoon we went to the local Swiss National Day celebrations. We go every year, eating lunch on the grass in the shade of a tree, balancing paper plates on our knees, striving to keep offspring (three now!) from wandering off into the crowd. There’s a stage and rows of chairs set up in a big barn, with music groups performing and politicians speechifying. It’s generally stifling hot inside the barn.

The boys got commemorative helium balloons looped around their wrists. I saw Joel pull his string off his wrist and start to play with it, and I had visions of a tearful boy staring up as his balloon floated away. I told him my concern and asked if he’d like it safely tied to the stroller handle. He would. So one balloon was safe. I asked Daniel the same thing. No, he’d rather hold his own balloon, thanks. I repeated my dire warnings but left him with it. Micah was sleepy and fairly inert. His balloon looked safe.

Later, during lunch, Micah was tottering around on the grass when his balloon came off his wrist and promptly soared into the heavens. He tried to run after it, exclaiming and pointing. I sat with the boys and explained how it was gone, unrecoverable, free. Micah was distressed but seemed to accept the explanation. Daniel consoled him by saying, “You can get another one next year.” I asked Daniel again if he was sure he wouldn’t rather have his balloon tied securely to the stroller. With brains enough to learn from others’ misfortunes, he acquiesced and gave up his balloon. Thus, we made it home with two balloons.

One balloon has lost some of its helium and sinks to the floor. That one was claimed by Micah. The other rises to the ceiling with great alacrity. Daniel is the only boy tall enough to reach the string, so that balloon is his by definition. I tried to convince him to let it go in the stairwell, but he’s not stupid. He’ll only release it where he knows the ceiling is low enough for him to reach the string. That leaves Joel with no balloon. He doesn’t seem particularly interested, but two balloons amongst three children is always cause for parental concern.

Today’s meetings went well. I got out of bed this morning feeling surprisingly refreshed after last night’s marathon drive. The hotel’s buffet breakfast was fantastic, definitely meeting my expectations for such an upscale resort. My breakfast meeting was energetic, fast-paced, high-energy. Good thing I’d had a couple of cups of coffee to get me jump-started. The board meeting, the day’s main event, was also intense, packed, rapid. Things hardly slowed during lunch. The traditional pause in official activity in favour of informal socializing went overboard, as people were unusually enthusiastic about the topics on the agenda. The afternoon went by quickly.

We finished around four. I said my goodbyes and carried my stuff out to the car to start the long drive home. I planned to break the drive and find a place to overnight at about the half-way point. It was foolishness to try and do it all in one go, especially in light of the late night last night and today’s full schedule.

At about 9pm I felt like I’d had enough driving. I figured I’d look for a motel in about an hour. By then it would be time to stop for gas anyway. I’d fuel up, get something to eat, check in to a motel and get a good night’s rest. I’d drive the rest of the way tomorrow.

When I stopped at 10:30, the motel (surprisingly large for this little town out in the middle of nowhere) was full. Booked solid. They’d phoned around and there were no rooms available anywhere within an hour’s radius. Hmmm. An unexpected setback, but no problem. It wasn’t that late. I’d carry on.

I stopped again an hour later down the highway and got exactly the same answer: booked solid, no rooms. And the motel was a bustling hive of activity. It was close to midnight and it felt full. They had also phoned around, and once again the nearest available rooms were an hour away. Sigh. Nothing for it but to keep driving.

Well past midnight I wondered if I should stop and try to find a room. It seemed a little silly to pay for a motel when I was so close to home (relatively speaking). But for the past hour I’d been weaving all over the highway, grateful for the fact that there was almost no traffic at all at this hour of the night. So in the interests of safety I went looking for a place to stay. This time there were rooms available. Hooray! But the motel was full, and all they had left were their most expensive suites, at exorbitant prices. What was going on? What was special about this weekend that every man and his dog was out on vacation? Fishing competition, apparently. I don’t know if that explained 400km of full motels, but that was the local excuse.

This close to home it seemed unreasonable to pay so much for a room, so ever so reluctantly I drove back onto the highway. I briefly thought about stopping and sleeping in the car, but it was an ultra-budget rental tin can, the most uncomfortable vehicle I’d driven in years. The pain in my back refused to even consider the possibility of spending any more time in those seats than was absolutely necessary, so I drove on.

I had an audio book to keep me company on the drive, and I figured I got the Reader’s Digest condensed version. I could tell you the overall plot and sequence of main events, but the details were a blank. In the book characters were by turns upset or happy, acting out of duty or nobility or ulterior motives. Things went well for them, or went badly. I didn’t much notice or care. The book droned on. I drove.

I got home without mishap and tumbled into bed at 3am, leaving Debbie with instructions not to wake me up in the morning. I was home. I was safe. I was in bed. I could sleep. Good night.

I thought it was ironic, having had such a huge room the night before, that tonight I could find no room at all. And the boys’ bedtime story for tomorrow night is Jesus’ birth, when Joseph and Mary couldn’t find a place to stay. I can sympathize.

I knew it was going to be a long drive. Google Maps told me it would be eight and a quarter hours. I wanted to make sure I didn’t arrive too late, so I left just after lunch. Eleven and a half hours later I pulled into my hotel parking lot, bone-weary. In all that time I stopped once for gas and once to get some food at a drive-through.

The big delay happened 50km into my 800km trip. A chemical tanker had a spill on the highway. This chemical must have been so toxic and so corrosive that they had to get earth-moving equipment to completely remove a 400m section of road. By the time I drove past the site, the pavement had been completely stripped, a narrow lane of new pavement had been laid for cars to get through, and diggers were excavating tons of contaminated earth by the side of the road. There were fire engines and police cars in great numbers. The tanker truck sat forlorn in the middle of the chaos, surrounded by containment barriers and wide swaths of empty ground. What a nightmare.

A three-hour delay is not the most auspicious way to start a long drive. But the weather was beautiful the whole way, traffic was light (other than the 15km of backed-up cars and trucks), and I had no problems finding my way despite trying to follow complicated directions in the dark. Debbie and I had discussed whether all of us should go or just me, and boy, I’m glad it was just me!

My hotel room is huge, though I’m not going to get much time in it. It’s well after midnight and I have an 8 o’clock meeting in the morning. That meeting will go till four or five in the afternoon, and then I start my drive home. I have to be back by noon Sunday. It’s a busy weekend. This was easier when I was younger.

I asked Daniel to come brush his teeth. It was bedtime, and he came along cheerfully with no objections. He was in the middle of telling me an involved story, and once Daniel gets talking he forgets himself, forgets to object about going to bed, forgets everything except the story. Single-minded.

Anyway, on the way to the bathroom Debbie called out that Micah needed his diaper changed, so I scooped up the baby and deposited him on the change table. No problem for Daniel. He stood by the change table and continued his story without missing a beat.

In due course I finished changing Micah and lifted him down to the floor, and he toddled off to his toys. Daniel was still in his story and had forgotten we’d been on our way to brush his teeth. To get him back on track, I said I’d wash my hands and then we’d brush teeth. I wasn’t sure he’d heard me, so I reached out and took his hand to lead him toward the bathroom. Immediately Daniel shook his hand violently, pulling away. I was taken by surprise. He’d been in such good spirits, not objecting to the bedtime routine at all. Unprompted, he enlightened me:

“You’ve got germs on your hands, Daddy, from changing Micah! They’ll get on my hands!”

Unclean! Unclean! I was temporarily outcast. At least, my hands were.

I washed my hands and all was well. I brushed Daniel’s teeth. Smiles and sunshine.

I thought about it later after he was tucked into bed. Amazing the grasp that small boy has on germ theory. The way infection is spread. How essential hand-washing is to good health. Germ theory was first proposed in 1835, but wasn’t widely accepted until the late 19th century. Hospital mortality rates from childbirth went from 30% to less than 2% when doctors started to wash their hands between patients. Although the idea that germs caused disease had been stated and studied, it took another fifty years to convince the medical establishment to implement the simple procedure of washing your hands before examining a patient. Fifty years of unnecessary suffering and death. And my four-year-old son knew exactly how important it was to wash your hands.

In fact, it was such an important concept that it immediately broke through his story-telling reverie, urgently interrupting his train of thought to exclaim, “Danger, Will Robinson!” That’s good. It’s a mind-set and habit that will significantly contribute to a healthy life.

It got me thinking about all the laws God wrote down for the Israelites as they set out for the promised land. We’re familiar with the ten commandments, but there were hundreds of other laws pertaining to worship (pretty obvious why God would give those kinds of laws), to relationships (also quite essential), to farming, cooking, and even clothing and construction. Some of it was quite obscure and non-intuitive, and I always wondered how on earth would the poor people remember all that stuff, so detailed and wide-ranging. Daniel’s complete understanding and acceptance of germ theory, right down to the subconscious level, gave me an inkling as to how God’s laws could have been followed by Israel of old.

It was possible when the rules governing life, health, happiness and a right relationship with God were deeply embedded in everyone’s mind, starting from infancy. No wonder God said to tie these words of the law to your hands, to your head. To talk about them when you woke up, when you went to bed. To discuss them morning, noon and night. Drill them in deep. Then they become an integral part of life, acted on without even having to think about it.

Believers no longer live in the age of law. We’re not bound by rules that prohibit socks made with a poly-cotton blend. Instead we live by grace, through faith in the Son of God. It’s Jesus death and resurrection that bring us to God, not strict adherence to a list of rules. Nevertheless, Jesus gave us plenty of commands: Love God above all else. Love your neighbour. Love your enemy and do good to those who hate you. Give to those in need. Jesus said, If you love me you will do what I command.

Maybe you live a perfect Christian life, but I spend way more time not obeying those commands than I do even thinking about them. And there’s the problem. I’d be much more likely to follow Jesus’ instructions if they were drummed into me all day every day. We make our kids wash their hands before meals, after going to the toilet, after coming in from outside, every single time. Imagine if we made them apply some version of “do good to others” on every single interaction they had with another person. That we applied a specific Biblical command, the correct chapter and verse. We’d have to know the Bible inside out. We’d have to know how to apply it. We’d have to be diligent in teaching it. They say that between the ages of 3 and 6 children get into conflict on average every six minutes. Imagine applying a spiritual wash-your-hands to every such incident.

I’m not saying it’s practical given our current lifestyle and casual approach to things spiritual. But what if we lived differently? Countless people died before the idea of hand-washing caught on. How many people will die spiritually before we apply spiritual hygiene to every incident of contamination by sin? How will we ourselves not die a thousand spiritual deaths?